


hold your breath and count to ten

by ssilverarrowss



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Falling In Love, Implied/Referenced Character Death, James Bond AU, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-29 20:23:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5141363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssilverarrowss/pseuds/ssilverarrowss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not exactly grief, but it’s not like he can pretend the loneliness isn’t gnawing at him, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hold your breath and count to ten

**Author's Note:**

> James Bond AU because I went to see Spectre and of course, my brain got ideas. In which Nico is 006, Lewis is Q, Toto is M, and Jessica is Moneypenny. I don't even know. Inspired by Skyfall. 
> 
> Title from 'Skyfall' by Adele.

The Quartermaster watches 006 die.

He can hear heavy breathing through the earpiece, and he listens as suddenly, it turns into static. It’s a piercing kind of silence that envelops him.

Lewis swallows around the lump in his throat, gritting his teeth to stop his hands from shaking.

The screen before him tells him that there was an explosion, and exactly nine seconds later, the building began to quake and crumble, with 006 on the 25th floor. If the explosion didn’t kill him, the collapsing skyscraper certainly did. And Lewis knows, feels it in his heavy heart and sweaty trembling fingers, that 006 didn’t survive this. He couldn’t have. Not this time.

And just like that, MI6 has been stupefied into silence, mouths curling with disbelief because this kind of thing just doesn’t happen - not to Nico Rosberg.

Lewis inhales, slow and shaky, pushing up his thick-rimmed glasses. 

“Agent down.” Jessica says quietly, confirming what they all already know.

It’s M who speaks up first, and Lewis is oddly glad, because his voice is lost, caught somewhere in his throat.

“Send a recon team in to the site to find...whatever’s left.”

And it’s funny, because he doesn’t say ‘the body’, or even the ‘remains.’ Because really, what could be left of their agent, other than a handful of charred remnants buried beneath the debris, a set of teeth and a shattered earpiece at most.

*

They assemble a team, M’s best men, and they scramble to get to the site before the local reinforcements.

It takes them a week to sift through the rubble, tirelessly working through the days as they melt away into late nights, until finally, on Friday at 1134 hours they find the remains of a man who matches 006’s height and build. The corpse is charred, burned away into nothingness, all traces of DNA destroyed. Rumour has it one of the agents couldn’t handle it and disgorged somewhere on site, saying it was the most disturbing thing he’d ever seen.

Then again, Q doesn’t believe in rumours. 

What they find is enough to rule him dead, and yet Q orders them to wait, though the air around him is thick with finality and despondency. 

He sees the same reflect in M’s eyes, and though he’s usually a cold-hearted bastard (006’s words), there’s a certain sadness about him. It soaks through him, clings to his skin, makes him heavy. Something like  _guilt._  

Another week passes. Two weeks.

006 doesn’t come back. 

A heaved sigh and a pointed look from M, and Q finds himself tampering with 006’s file.

It’s one word, a handful of letters, really, but it makes it _real_ somehow, in a way it wasn’t before, when he subconsciously waited - they _all_ waited - for 006 to walk into Headquarters with an empty gun and a cut adorning his lip.

Now there’s a splash of colour across his file as it reads ‘DECEASED’ in bold red.

*

They hold a funeral. 

It’s a dark day in February, rain falling heavily, silver drops thrumming against the huddle of black umbrellas, wind howling like a wounded animal, ripping through the trees. Thunder rumbles somewhere in the distance, rolling through the sky.

Lewis shivers, pushing his hands further into the pockets of his jacket. He wears a suit, all black, modest - borrowed, of course. Not something 006 would’ve worn.

The shirt is - _was_ \-  his, though, and it’s easy to tell, because it’s loose in places, the sleeves a little too long. The smell of 006’s Hugo Boss cologne still clings to the white material and Q resists the urge to itch behind the collar. 

He shifts the weight of his body from one leg to the other, uncomfortable and increasingly cold. He watches as blank, nameless faces make eulogies, and it’s funny, he thinks, because they knew him a little less than he did. 

M and Michibata stand on either side of him, as damp and miserable as everyone else. M reads out the obituary, honouring their fallen agent, calling him “an exemplar of British fortitude”, and Q knows 006 would hate it. 

He can tell by the look in his eyes that M knows it too.

They lower a coffin into the ground, and nobody questions its contents. It could even be empty. It doesn’t matter, really. 

They stand around for a while, silent and soaked to the bone, hands clasped in front of them, fingers laced together but too lose to pray, because how do you pray for the faithless? Lewis’s eyes rake over the freshly piled earth, the plain black tombstone that says nothing significant about the man they just buried. 

And then it’s over, and they leave, Jessica draping a comforting arm over Lewis’s shoulders as they share an umbrella. 

*

They add Nico’s name to the memorial wall at MI6, beautifully imprinted in the marble, marking him out as the hero he never wanted to be.

*

M sells 006’s apartment and most of his belongings, and it’s almost an insult, except not really, because it’s not like the man is ever going to come back to reclaim them. And anyway, he never even left any letters, let alone a will. It’s not exactly like he could be angry about it, wherever he was right now.

Lewis never thought of himself as sentimental, yet somehow he finds himself sitting cross-legged on the floor of Rosberg’s (mostly) empty apartment, sifting through the boxes with Jessica, as they aimlessly look for something to salvage. 

It’s petty, really, because they weren’t even ‘friends’, as such, the three of them. But they were _something_ \- acquaintances. A team, sometimes. 

And it’s tiring, in a way, combing through the possessions of someone who’s dead and buried, remembering despite their best efforts not to. The hours stretch on until night begins to fall outside, and they end up curled up by the fireplace, watching the flames crackle as they share a bottle of whiskey. 

It’s strange, missing someone you never really knew, but Lewis guesses the novelty will wear off soon, and eventually, it’ll fade into the background.

Lewis and Jessica spend the night on 006’s couch, lulled by the numbing haze of alcohol, and the next morning, they walk away with a silver watch and a bottle of Scotch, respectively. 

*

Life goes on. 

MI6 keeps them both on their toes with a constant stream of assignments and missions until it becomes almost easy to forget. Q’s assigned other agents to monitor, hears different voices filtering through the speakers, and other times, he busies himself with coding, hacking and weapons development. He passes the time.

He serves his country. He keeps tabs on the agents and makes sure every one of them comes back alive. They never thank him, but they don’t need to. And anyway, it’s not like 006 ever showed any gratitude, so it’s not exactly anything new.

Every month Lewis goes to where 006 is buried, dusts off the gravestone, leaves flowers, simply because nobody else will. He stands there for a while, staring at the name engraved in the marble, without ever really knowing what keeps him coming back.

It’s not exactly grief, but it’s not like he can pretend the loneliness isn’t gnawing at him, either.

Jessica spends time with him. They go out to dinner sometimes. But as the months pass, it becomes more sporadic (she’s got a girlfriend now.)

Lewis thinks that maybe he should move on, too, try something new. Get a dog or something, he thinks, eyes trained on M’s porcelain bulldog ornament. 

006 has always hated that thing, he doesn’t think.

But his plans never come to fruition, and it’d be pointless, anyway, because he spends more time at Headquarters than he does in his apartment these days. Still, the thought of having someone to come back home to...It’s tempting.

*

Lewis goes out to clubs in Soho, kisses blonde-haired, green-eyed strangers, and comes home alone. He doesn’t know what he expects, but either way, it doesn’t ease the ache.

*

MI6 comes under attack. 

There’s an explosion, eerily reminiscent of the one that killed 006, and suddenly everything changes. M is shaken - they all are.

There are more coffins, draped in Union Jacks, more names added to the memorial wall. They relocate to their underground headquarters, and it begins to feel a lot like the end.

*

There’s a week of heavy rainfall in early April, an incessant pounding against the roofs and windows of London apartments. It’s nearly midnight, darkness enveloping the small flat, but Lewis finds he’s too restless to sleep.

He moves from the kitchen to the living room, cup of steaming tea in hand (Earl Grey, of course), pausing to smile sadly at the small bulldog puppy on the floor, whimpering softly in his sleep with every crack of thunder. 

Lewis sets his cup down on the coffee table, fingers opening his laptop, when a streak of lightning illuminates the room, and he sees the shadow of a figure lingering by the window.

“Shit.” He swears under his breath. Lewis’s groggy mind can barely make out the figure, but the height and build seem to fit, and-

It can’t be.

Except that it is.

“Where have you been?” Lewis asks, and it doesn’t come out as indignant as he hoped it would.

“Enjoying death.” Nico replies bitterly, moving closer, and god, Lewis’s heart lurches at the sound of his voice. “The Dominican Republic is lovely this time of year.”

There are things Lewis wants to say, things that hang on the tip of his tongue, like  _what took you so long?_ and  _I think I missed you._  

But he doesn’t.

“Well I’m glad.” He says instead, annoyance seeping into his voice. “Because you’re in deep shit, 006.”

Nico gives a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders, lips curling into a smirk, and Lewis doesn’t know whether he wants to punch him or kiss him or both.

“It’s not exactly the first time, is it?” And then, “I’m guessing you don’t happen to have anything stronger than a protein shake?”

Lewis is not amused.

“I figured.” Nico nods.

“What do you want?” 

“Well, a drink would be nice.” 

“I’m being serious, 006. Why did you come back?” Lewis quips through gritted teeth.

Nico heaves a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, like he always does when he’s exasperated, and it’s funny, Lewis thinks, how a stranger’s mannerisms stay with you.

“You know why. I came back to finish the job.”

“We don’t need you.” Lewis says, and it’s harsher than he thought it would be. The ‘I’ hangs in the air, catching on Lewis’s lips but remaining unspoken.

Nico laughs humourlessly. 

“Don’t be childish, Q. You’re holed up underground like rats.” He pauses, then calmly, he adds: “One last job and you never have to see me again.”

It’s surprising, really, what the thought of losing Nico (again) does to Lewis. He stiffens because, _no, that’s not what I meant. Not what I want._

“I think you missed me.” Nico says, and it’s spoken so kindly, so softly. Lewis ducks his head, keeps his eyes on the silver keys beneath his fingers. He feels Nico move closer, sinking down onto the couch beside Lewis. 

The air is thick with the smell of cologne and alcohol, and Lewis gently leans into the warmth of Nico’s body, breath hitching as their eyes meet. Lips brush, soft and slow, as thunder rumbles outside. Nico’s tongue dances on the roof of Lewis’s mouth and they kiss to the steady rhythm of  _I might have missed you, too._

*

Nico shows up at MI6 (or rather, what’s left of it) the following day. 

“006, reporting for duty.” He says to M as if nothing ever happened, as if they never buried him, as if there isn’t a gravestone bearing his name. 

“Ran out of drink where you were, did they?” Toto quips. He’s pissed, of course he is, but in the end, the anger is mostly overridden by relief. They need him, as annoying as he may be, he knows.

“Why did you sell my apartment, M?” 

“It’s standard procedure in the event of an agent’s death. And, well - for all intents and purposes you were dead, 006.” He pauses for a moment, and then, “You should’ve called.”

“Right.” Nico narrows his eyes, clearly displeased. 

“Welcome back, 006.” Toto adds with a small smile, and Nico almost begins to regret his decision. 

*

“I’ll tell them not to sell your flat next time.” Lewis promises, later.

Nico smiles, and there’s a click, the sound of a magazine being inserted into a gun.

“I’m counting on it.”


End file.
